Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“Does he know?” she asked finally, through numb lips.

“Caramon?” Raistlin snorted. “Of course not. If they had told him, he would have broken his fool neck trying to get it to you and would beg you on his knees to use it and give him the privilege of dying in your stead. I can think of little else that would make him happier.

“No, Lady Crysania, he would have used it confidently, with you standing beside him as well as the kender, no doubt. And he would have been devastated when they explained to him why he returned alone. I wonder how Par-Salian would have managed that,” Raistlin added with a grim smile. “Caramon is quite capable of tearing that Tower down around their ears. But that is neither here nor there.”

His gaze caught hers, though she would have avoided it. He compelled her, by the force of his will, to look into his eyes. And, once again, she saw herself, but this time alone and terribly frightened.

“They sent you back here to die, Crysania,” Raistlin said in a voice that was little more than a breath, yet it penetrated to Crysania’s very core, echoing louder in her mind than the thunder. “This is the good you tell me about? Bah! They live in fear, as does the Kingpriest! They fear you as they fear me. The only path to good, Crysania, is my path! Help me defeat the evil. I need you...”

Crysania closed her eyes. She could see once again, vividly, Par-Salian’s handwriting on the note she had found—your life or your soul—gain one and you will lose the other! There are many ways back for you, one of which is through Caramon. He had purposely misled her! What other way existed, besides Raistlin’s? Is this what—the mage meant? Who could answer her? Was there anyone, anyone in this bleak and desolate world she could trust?

Her muscles twitching, contracting, Crysania pushed herself up from her chair. She did not look at Raistlin, she stared ahead at nothing. “I must go...” she muttered brokenly, “I must think...”

Raistlin did not try to stop her. He did not even stand. He spoke no word—until she reached the door.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow...”

It took all of Caramon’s strength, plus that of two of the Temple guards, to force the great doors of the Temple open and let him out into the storm. The wind hit him full force, driving the big man back against the stone wall and pinning him there for an instant, as if he were no bigger than Tas. Struggling, Caramon fought against it and finally won, the gale force relenting enough to allow him to continue down the stairs.

The fury of the storm was somewhat lessened as he walked among the tall buildings of the city, but it was still difficult going. Water ran a foot deep in some places, swirling about his legs, threatening more than once to sweep him off his feet. The lightning half-blinded him, the thunder was deafening.

Needless to say, he saw few other people. The inhabitants of Istar cowered indoors, alternately cursing or calling upon the gods. The occasional traveler he passed, driven out into the storm by who knows what desperate reason, clung to the sides of the buildings or stood huddled miserably in doorways.

But Caramon trudged on, anxious to get back to the arena. His heart was filled with hope, his spirits were high, despite the storm. Or perhaps because of the storm. Surely now Kiiri and Pheragas would listen to him instead of giving him strange, cold looks when he tried to persuade them to flee Istar.

“I can’t tell you how I know, I just know!” he pleaded. “There’s disaster coming, I can smell it!”

“And miss the final tournament?” Kiiri said coolly.

“They won’t hold it in this weather!” Caramon waved his arms.

“No storm this fierce ever lasts long!” Pheragas said. “It will blow itself out, and we’ll have a beautiful day. Besides”—his eyes narrowed—“what would you do without us in the arena?”

“Why, fight alone, if need be,” Caramon said, somewhat flustered. He planned to be long gone by that time—he and Tas, Crysania and perhaps... perhaps...

“If need be... ” Kiiri had repeated in an odd, harsh tone, exchanging glances with Pheragas. “Thanks for thinking of us, friend,” she said with a scathing glance at the iron collar Caramon wore, the collar that matched her own, “but no thanks. Our lives would be forfeit—runaway slaves! How long do you think we’d live out there?”

“It won’t matter, not after... after...” Caramon sighed and shook his head miserably. What could he say? How could he make them understand? But they had not given him the chance. They walked off without another word, leaving him sitting alone in the mess hall.

But, surely, now they would listen! They would see that this was no ordinary storm. Would they have time to get away safely? Caramon frowned and wished, for the first time, he had paid more attention to books. He had no idea how wide an area the devastating effect of the fall of the fiery mountain encompassed. He shook his head. Maybe it was already too late.

Well, he had tried, he told himself, slogging along through the water. Wrenching his mind from the plight of his friends, he forced himself to think more cheerful thoughts. Soon he would be gone from this terrible place. Soon this would all seem like a bad dream.

He would be back home with Tika. Maybe with Raistlin! “I’ll finish building the new house,” he said, thinking regretfully of all the time he had wasted. A picture came into his mind. He could see himself, sitting by the fire in their new home, Tika’s head resting in his lap. He’d tell her all about their adventures. Raistlin would sit with them, in the evenings; reading, studying, dressed in white robes...

“Tika won’t believe a word of this,” Caramon said to himself. “But it won’t matter. She’ll have the man she fell in love with home again. And this time, he won’t leave her, ever, for anything!” He sighed, feeling her crisp red curls wrap around his fingers, seeing them shine in the firelight.

These thoughts carried Caramon through the storm and to the arena. Pulling out the block in the wall that was used by all the gladiators on their nocturnal rambles. (Arack was aware of its existence but, by tacit arrangement, turned a blind eye to it as long as the privilege wasn’t abused.) No one was in the arena, of course. Practice sessions had all been cancelled. Everyone was huddled inside, cursing the foul weather and making bets on whether or not they would fight tomorrow.

Arack was in a mood nearly as foul as the elements, counting over and over the pieces of gold that would slip through his fingers if he had to cancel the Final Bout—the sporting event of the year in Istar. He tried to cheer himself up with the thought that he had promised him fine weather and he, if anyone, should know. Still, the dwarf stared gloomily outside.

From his vantage point, a window high above the grounds in the tower of the arena, he saw Caramon creep through the stone wall. “Raag!” He pointed. Looking down, Raag nodded in understanding and, grabbing the huge club, waited for the dwarf to put away his account books.

Caramon hurried to the cell he shared with the kender, eager to tell him about Crysania and Raistlin. But when he entered, the small room was empty.

“Tas?” he said, glancing around to make certain he hadn’t overlooked him in the shadows. But a flash of lightning illuminated the room more brightly than daylight. There was no sign of the kender.

“Tas, come out! This is no time for games!” Caramon ordered sternly. Tasslehoff had nearly frightened him out of six years’ growth one day by hiding under the bed, then leaping out when Caramon’s back was turned. Lighting a torch, the big man got down, grumbling, on his hands and knees and flashed the light under the bed. No Tas.